


Price of Origins

by Wil



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Angst, Astral Travels, Fantasy, Love, Other, Prophecy, Siblings, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-18
Updated: 2009-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-04 13:42:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wil/pseuds/Wil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on medieval texts, specifically Robert de Boron's <i>Vita Merlini.</i> Explorations of Merlin's much ignored youth. This has nothing to do with the BBC Merlin show. You have been warned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Youth and Madness

**Author's Note:**

> Based on Robert de Boron's _Vita Merlini._

The teen was sleeping in his cot, under the shaking song of the willow trees. He held himself in a ball, curled up like a terrified puppy as the dream came back to haunt him ceaselessly. Dark things, tenebrous thoughts, and a gate opening into the somber possibilities of nothingness. A place where nothing could exist, but he.

The larger being was in front of him, eyes blazing out of emptiness, and the voice was powerful. "You will be mine, Merlinus Aurelius Ambrosius, to make the world fall to my feet. Curse the bitch who bore you and Blaise, if you suffer. Your baptism is why you are here."

But the youth resisted, and though he looked down and way from the pools of darkness of his father, he prayed to the gods of the forest and the faeries, to keep his mind in a place of light and of goodness, to not let him be corrupted by his father.

The chains were heavy on his wrists, a torture on his young flesh, and he was put to the wall and lashed, but he would not willingly join him. Blood, hot and coppery, runs down his back, along his bare buttocks, burning almost the blisters from his previous tortures. His heels hurt badly for the lashings and the skin the demon removed, but still, he refuses, and so the tortionnaries continue, pressing him into a scavenger's daughter until pain is so harsh for the metal in his scabs, and so great for the cuts on his body, and his mind weak with blood loss, that he gives in, and promises everything his nemesis wills him to.

Merlin woke up then, to the sounds of weeping, and there was blood everywhere, not his, but those of soldiers, man and woman alike, and hands, ripped apart, dangling from trees. "Where am I?" And dying lips whisper, "Carwonnak." He murmurs something – a curse – what happened? But the soldier is dead, and more blood is soaking up the earth.

He runs, then, and finds himself in a cave, wrapping his arms around himself, horrified. Memories are crashing, of what he did – how he used the Craft to seduce the Earl of Carwonnak, and then his enemy. How he wreathed treason and treachery between them, built an intricate web of lies. How he used the Sight to turn his prophecy to his advantages. In the cavern, he rocks to himself, and mutters senseless prayers in Latin and Welsh alike. A wolf comes, and likes his blood.

"Aye, beast, I am one of you now, Myrrdin Wyllt, forlorn and condemned to live by my father's rule."

And so he remained, bard abandoned and mad, with the beasts, for a very long time, until reason, slow and steady, came to him. It flashed on him as faith does, in a flash of light, and the sight instructed him to make for Vortigern's home, where redemption, perhaps, would come.

Never again was he weak to direct supplications of his fore-bearer, though his mistakes, undoubtedly, served him greatly in the decades that followed.


	2. Coming of Age and Knowing

He walked, a long time. There were moments where his mind returned to the bloody battle field, his most gruesome piece of work. There were moments where he sighed to himself. There were moments where his lips murmured words in languages unknown to men.

She sat by him, quietly, on a misty morning. Her hair was flying galore in the wind. Her hands were small, white, precious. She smelled of wild flowers, milk and honey.

"You are ever quiet," she murmured to this man she did not know.

"That is because I speak ill," he whispered in response.

"I would show you the contrary," she said again, quietly.

"I know," he said, softly. "Gwendolyn."

She gasped. Her name, she had not told him – yet he knew, as he knew then that his wife, she would be, that he would betray her and break her heart for an enchantress.

"Who are you, to know my name?" She whispered it softly, her voice filled with awe.

"I am the Merlin," he said, to her, to the landscape, to the four winds which mischievously mixed his hair with hers. "Born of the demons, saved by God, cursed a thousand times over."

She bit her lip, examined his face, ravined already though he was not even past his thirties yet. It was handsome, in a forlorn, worried way.

"And what should I call you, then, My Lord?" Her question was soft, barely a whisper.

"Anything you wish," he said, turning to look at her for the first time. "I will never fault you for it."

She bit her lip, and nodded. "Good bye, then, Merlin. Try to smile."

He nodded, and continued to look over the landscape. In the distance, over the horizon, visions were playing – dragons and chimeras, birds and lions, fighting. Carwonnak, all over again, and him, in the midst of it all, unable to stop the slaughter.

"Foolish woman," he murmured, softly. "Could you not wait, just a moment?"

He stood, and started to walk back to the place he was inhabiting, close to the observatory he was building. Perhaps tomorrow, his sister would come. Unplanned, unexpected Ganieda. She would ever soothe his tortured mind, that, he knew.

He entered the humble place, lay by the hearth, and prayed that the dreams would not come this day.

They did, as they did every time he slept. He cried in his sleep, but part of him knew – she would come, perhaps. She would soothe him.

A gentle hand touched his forehead, calling him back to the wakefulness of the mid-morning. He caught it. "You always do that, don't yo---" his eyes snapped open. Sweet, honey scented flours. Gwendolyn. "My Lady." He dropped her hand, faster than a burning brand. "Forgive me."

She looked pained, and stood abruptly. "No, forgive me, sir." Without more words, she turned, and strode out of the hut. Behind Merlin, a soft, motherly voice resounded.

"Ever the charmer, my little brother," she murmured. He froze. "Ganieda. I thought you were here."

"Poor soul, of course I am," she replied with mild amusement. "And now, aren't going after your bride?"

"She will return," he murmured softly. "It is in the stars."


End file.
